"There's Owley Cot will be empty for one thing," said Jane.
"Yes, it will; and if bricks and mortar could be sorry for themselves, I dare say her house would grieve."
They had come to a cottage near Shipley Bridge, the home of Mr. Marydrew.
"The funeral moves on Monday at noon," he said, "and there will be a pretty good rally of neighbours I expect."
"Everybody of any account will go," declared Jeremy. "She was a most popular woman."
"Them that respect themselves did ought to go," answered Billy, "let alone them that respected her. And if you're going to Red House, break the news and tell Jacob I'll be pleased to hear his sympathy. I'm very old for a blow like this, and 'tis no good pretending I don't feel cruel cast down, because I do."
"And it will get worse, when you grasp it," foretold Jane. "I know it will."
"It's got to get worse afore it gets better," admitted Billy. "I'm quite prepared to face that. And tell Jacob to look me up in my misfortune if you please. He won't need to be told twice."
They left him, entered a grassy plateau beside the river, where towered ruins of old clay works, and so proceeded toward Red House.
They talked concerning Mr. Marydrew's loss and the familiar figure of his busy daughter. Then they noticed a boy fishing in the river. He was a sturdy, hatless youngster clad in patched, grey tweeds, with a mourning band on his left arm.